


I Know You're Up There Somewhere

by anthrop



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Gen, Phanniemay, phanniemay 14, prompt - space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1550081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthrop/pseuds/anthrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All your interests, your knowledge, your mannerisms, and even your name are copied from Danny. <i>Cloned</i> from Danny. It isn’t fair. You have your own thoughts, your own will. You’ve explored and learned and made choices (you don’t think?) Danny would have made if he’d been in your shoes. But the basis of you, the <i>core</i> of you, stems from a boy Vlad coveted.</p>
<p>And he never told you why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know You're Up There Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing for the prompt "space" for Phanniemay 14! Title comes from Nine Inch Nails' [Satellite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tqymo0sVUwE).

After it was safe, after the asteroid passed harmlessly through the intangible Earth, you chose not to stick around. You saw everything, of course. You saw Danny reveal himself to pretty much the whole world, saw how his family embraced him, how Sam kissed him. Things were good.

Or, things were going to be good.

For _him_ , anyway. Because Danny _likes_ the spotlight. Danny _likes_ being appreciated. Danny _likes_ being the hero. You know these things and many more because Vlad--your father, for lack of a better word--told you so. He told you lots of things about Danny’s life, when he pulled you out of your tube and called you Danielle for the very first time.

You looked your name up once; snuck into a library on a quiet Tuesday morning. You’d never used anything like their clunky beige PCs, and you were terrified to ask the elderly librarians up at the front desk. Invisible, you’d peered over shoulders until you understood what to do.

Your  Google search led you to a website full of pictures of smiling mothers and babies. The only mother you’ve ever known was a hologram of _Danny’s_ mom, and Vlad had programmed her to adore _him_. Even when it had been the only thing you’d ever known, something about that had...gnawed.  

Clumsily, you typed your name, clicked the top result. You memorized the meaning instantly, not because you wanted to, but because Vlad had taught you--programmed you?--that way. You see or hear something once, it’s with you forever.

_Danielle; French female variant of the male name Daniel, meaning “God is my judge,” Hebrew origin._

All your interests, your knowledge, your mannerisms, and even your _name_ are copied from Danny. _Cloned_ from Danny. It isn’t fair. You have your own thoughts, your own will. You’ve explored and learned and made choices (you don’t think?) Danny would have made if he’d been in your shoes. But the basis of you, the _core_ of you, stems from a boy Vlad coveted.

And he never told you why.

Something else you know about Danny: he’s been to space. Not on his own steam, sure, but he’s been out there in the cold and dark and vastness of space. _Twice_. Which means you ought to be able to do it no problem, if you’ve got the right equipment.

The Speeder’s a no-go. You don’t know how to ride a bicycle; no _way_ you’re gonna try punching through the atmosphere in what’s basically a rocket-powered silo cobbled together by _Jack Fenton_. Besides, Danny’s the Big Hero now, saving the day and the town and the world. He and his friends’ll need it, and you don’t plan on coming back, at least not for a while.

Axion’s security systems are a joke, though it helps you know most of the loopholes Vlad programmed into the upgrades. You’re in and out in no time with the gear Danny used to defeat Technus, adjusting the straps and tucking your hair into the chunky helmet.

Copying again. You’re stuck copying Danny still. It makes you sick. You like him, you _do_. You know you were piecemealed from good DNA; after all, he’s saved your butt twice now and you were the one who got him into trouble in the first place. But then, do you like him because Vlad taught you to? Programmed you to?

You’ve thought yourself in circles, since breaking ties with Vlad. You need answers, and there’s only one person who might give them to you. He just happens to be off-planet right now.

The jetpack is surprisingly simple. Just a few buttons and belated thought to snap the face shield closed and then you’re _off_ , launching toward the stars. It’s hard to keep your limbs locked--the glance you spared at the schematics showed a full suit of what was basically armor that a normal human would use if they didn’t want to end up liquified meat in a skin bag. But you’re not normal; you’ve never _been_ normal.

You scream along with the thunderous roar of the jetpack, too furious and too terrified to think about regretting such an insane shot in the dark.

A timer beeps incessantly, warning you just before the rockets cut out. You promptly do a somersault, startled and delighted by the near total absence of gravity. And then, upside-down--or really, does it matter, there’s no up or down out here?--you see it.

_Earth_.                                                                                           

It curves, huge and blue and _incredible_ , taking up all but the tiniest sliver of your vision. It _glows_ , just like a ghost, reflecting the Sun’s light out into the universe like a beacon. _There is life here_ , it says. _It’s safe here_. It’s night on this half of the planet, and the yellow-white lights of cities pulse and flicker like neurons through the thin skin of the atmosphere, and you--you’re left _breathless_ , drifting, eyes watering at the sheer size and color and vastness of Earth, of _home_.

But a chill seeps into your bones as you stare for long minutes, pulling you back to yourself, to where you are. You balance yourself, then turn away from all that life to look out, _beyond_.

_Space_. You thought you understood it. Vlad made you watch documentaries about it, to better understand Danny’s love of it, to better mimic Danny. But it’s--there’s--you think--

You don’t have the _words_. You’ve been alive barely a handful of years and you’ve been on the road for most of that--how _could_ you have the words?

Your heart is hammering in your chest. A part of you wants nothing more than to return to Earth, to Amity Park, to Danny’s bedroom so he can put a hand on your shoulder and tell you everything’s going to be fine. You want to be a coward, even if it means never getting answers to the questions clawing up your insides. But that’s no good.

Slowly, slowly, you focus on Earth again. Think of sunsets on open water, of the smell of rain on hot concrete, of freshly cut grass, of city skylines silhouetted by the sun, of flights of birds darkening the sky, of the first time you saw ocean waves spill across the sand. These things and many more will all still be there when you fly home. These things are constants, happening now in a hundred thousand places. You think of Danny, and of Valerie, of being protected, of protecting. They’ll be down there now, protecting Amity Park, laughing, smiling. Human things.

You calm. Your resolve hardens.

There’s no doubt in your mind that you’ll find Vlad. He’s still out here, caught in Earth’s gravitational pull, swinging around and around like a tiny, scheming satellite. This you know, though _how_ you know is something you’re still working on. He might not be _alive_ anymore by then, sure, but that doesn’t really matter to something like him, does it? If you’re careful, if you stretch the oxygen tank--because this is something _Danny_ doesn’t know, that food and water and even _air_ are optional for things like you and him and Vlad--you’ll have all the time you need.

You’ll find him.

 


End file.
